


an irresistible force (such as you)

by Rabenherz



Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: In Public, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Nipple Play, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:40:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24999232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rabenherz/pseuds/Rabenherz
Summary: “C’mon.” Six smiles in that way he knows he has, carefree and warm and inviting. “Just a bit more time, and I’ll do something terribly impressive and reckless."
Relationships: Arcade Gannon/Courier, Male Courier/Arcade Gannon
Series: Smoke Gets In Your Eyes [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628497
Comments: 5
Kudos: 38





	an irresistible force (such as you)

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, thanks to BannedBloodOranges for beating this into readable shape for me.

They arrive back in Vegas so late that the Wrangler is all but deserted, save for a few lonely drunks, and a small group of young Kings who are having a quietly animated discussion near the bar. Francine, who has apparently drawn the short straw and gets to cover the late shift, is watching over them with exasperated amusement. She gives Arthur a sluggish wave when she spots him.

“Give me twenty minutes to get your room ready.” She slips off the barstool, seemingly glad for the excuse to stretch her legs. “Your lady friend made good use of it this evening. I’m pretty sure she and the boys are gone, though.”

“Good for her,” Arthur chuckles, pulling a mildly resistant Arcade along to a table far from the other remaining patrons. “Any chance of a nightcap while we wait? Bottle of your finest whatever, and two glasses - oh c’mon Arcade…” He rolls a cigarette between his forefingers, pouting like a spoiled child. “I thought you were supposed to be my doctor. It’d be irresponsible to let me drink alone. Yeah, two glasses - definitely.“

Francine decides that they look to be in a bourbon kind of mood (good girl!) and leaves them to it.

Arthur empties his glass in one deep gulp, and the liquor is sharp all the way down, bringing a welcoming warmth with its bite. He is already pouring himself a second helping when he notices that a cross armed Arcade is watching him, drink untouched.

Ah.

The walk back from Cottonwood Cove is long and uncomfortable at the best of times, but hours feel like eons if you are walking besides a stony faced researcher who has very much had his fill of you and your nonsense.

Arthur caps the bottle and runs a finger along the rim of his glass, thoughtfully collecting droplets of sweet oblivion.

It’s not as though they’ve not talked at all, but while they might usually have exchanged cynical observations or spent their evenings huddled together over the same battered paperback, their conversation has been pointedly practical these last few days. He had been fool enough to hope the promise of a warm bed and a stomach full of comfort would cure Arcade of his sour mood, but apparently this is something they will actually have to address.

“Look,” Arthur murmurs, more hushed than necessary, and takes the opportunity to lean ever so slightly into Arcade’s personal space. The scrape of his chair sounds loud in the almost empty bar. “If this is about the Legion thing again, I don’t know what to tell you. I thought you agreed that getting into their camps to find out about their plans was a good idea.”

Arcade’s eyes narrow slightly. It seems almost possible to see the gears turning as he tries to decide what Arthur’s angle might be. This is something he is eerily good at - one of the many, many reasons Arthur enjoys his company so much. He likes a challenge.

“Suuure,” Arcade drawls icily. “Just finding out what he’s up to, eh, Decanus?” He snaps off his glasses, trying to rub the exhaustion from his eyes with his forefingers and thumb. “Can’t imagine what you must have done to earn that little title. Then again, you have always been a sucker for a nice hat. I should never have thought you’d be able to say no to the chance of putting a duster on your head.”

Arthur sighs, idly rotating his glass. There is a working ice machine in the cocktail lounge atop the Lucky 38. It is a luxury he wishes he had never discovered, along with limitless hot water and air conditioning. He spent his life on the road, in countless filthy motels, in the rain under half toppled pre-war relics with the stale smoke of campfires. But now he has been spoilt by a tiny sip of comfort, and now there are few things he will not do for silk sheets and feather beds, for the crackle of ice in his drink.

“You’d be surprised how little it took, actually. Just a bit of information - half of it not quite true, the rest only useful in the short term. Most of it was just some good old-fashioned ass-kissing.” He flashes a grin here, lightly flavored with healthy self-deprecation. “Always been good at that.”

Arcade snorts.

“As we know.”

“Don’t we just!” Arthur lifts his glass in a toast, once again knocking back its contents all at once, wincing just a little at the burn. When he opens his eyes Arcade is finally, uneasily reaching for his own drink. He ends up cradling it between his palms, like one might a hot cup of coffee by the fireside. He has that look on his face again, the one that says he wonders about Arthur sometimes (always).

Arthur knows that look, has seen it much too often lately. His head swims a little as he leans in closer - a stomach sloshing with bourbon and little else will do that - and his tongue feels heavier than he would like as he speaks.

“Me and Craig are gonna swoop in one night and take ‘em out right from the heart.” He thuds his chest for emphasis, tapping the end of his nose with a smile, careful not to slur. “Caesar, first. Then the rest of the bastards. But we gotta be quiet, and we gotta be careful. The entire NCR couldn’t do it, so if it’ll just be the two of us, well. I have to be certain that I know where to hit ‘em. “

And he will. One day he will, and it will be one of those stories they will tell eager eyed children and weary travellers for years to come. If he takes out the Legion – near enough single handed (and sad as it is, tales about heartbroken, dour-faced bores are not terribly exciting), he will be a Legend around these parts. And that alone, Arthur thinks a little tiredly, will be worth all the lying and the stealing and the arguments in the world. 

“But we ain’t ready.” He adds. “I wish we were.”

And that is the truth of it; he’s not. Sure, he knows all the paths through the camps, knows when the guards change, but most importantly; he knows how to speak to a dying old wreck of a megalomaniac like a loyal little lapdog. But though he could take them all out tomorrow if he wanted, he is not done with the Legion yet, not done ruffling Vulpes’ feathers and trying to -

Trying-

Fuck.

This is the part he cannot share with Arcade. Goddamn Arcade, with his ideals and dislike for metaphors about omelettes and eggs.

“C’mon.” Arthur smiles in that way he knows he has, carefree and warm and inviting. “Just a bit more time, and I’ll do something terribly impressive and reckless. We’ll free all the slaves and I’ll even stick my nice new hat on a spike outside the NCR embassy for you.”

He winks, and adds, sweet;

“You know me.”

Arcade barks a laugh.

“Do I now?”

“Thought you did.” He finds Arcade’s wrist, rubbing the pad of his thumb slowly across the bones. He earns himself a defeated little sigh and a look that tells him just how weak Arcade Gannon is for him.

Not that the feeling isn’t mutual.

All attempts at subtlety gone, Arthur gets to his feet and pulls his chair close enough to Arcade’s that that they are practically pressed together when he resumes his seat.

“What are you doing?” Arcade’s voice is mildly strained, incredulous even as Arthur’s arm snakes confidently around his back.

Arthur chuckles.

“What’s it look like? Displaying the kind of degenerate behaviour that’d get an actual Legionary fucking crucified, of course.”

A shiver courses through Arcade’s body, subtle but unmistakable, and his eyes dart around the room as if searching for some excuse to break away. By the bar a few of the Kings are laughing, trying to goad a very drunk friend into buying himself a little adventure with Fisto. Francine is back on her stool, trying valiantly not to fall asleep.

“Actually, you’ll find that a lot of the Legion’s supposed homophobia is a little more flexible than you might have heard.” Arcade’s voice has dropped to a low murmur, and he tensely does not recoil at the chapped brush of lips against the side of his neck.

“Oh?”

Arcade’s skin is gritty with sand and stubble, salty against Arthur’s tongue.

“Well, as you know the entire organisation is rife with hypocrisy.” His throat bobs with a heavy swallow. “Sure, a low Legionary might get in trouble for indulging in carnal pleasures with a willing comrade when there are plenty of starving slaves to molest, but..” His fingers have wound their way into Arthur’s hair, holding fast as though to make sure Arthur does not stop his ministrations. “Caesar’s favourites can pretty much do as they please, so long as they keep expanding his little empire. There were some persistent rumours about Lanius’ predecessor-”

“Is that so?” Arthur bites, as he is prone to do, sucking the skin into his mouth hard enough that it might bruise. He is caressing Arcade’s flank with wandering fingers, snaking his hand around beneath the fabric of Arcade’s greying coat. He is briefly tempted to find out how ticklish Arcade might be, but he can already vision being sprawled on the floor with a swelling eye.

Instead, he decides to be more wicked.

“Fuck, Arthur-”

_“Yes.”_

Arcade’s shirt is very thin in places, soft with wear and rough with grime - fuck, they both need a bath - and he circles his fingers playfully, repeatedly brushing against the firm raise of Arcade’s nipple beneath. The response is immediate, a suppressed groan and Arcade grows pliant, melting against him like hot wax. Arthur’s other hand comes to rest on Arcade’s thigh, moving up and in.

They have and have not done this before. For months they have been dancing around each other, teasing and fighting and kissing one another breathless after yet another one of Arthur’s ridiculous stunts has gone off without a hitch. Arthur knows the shape of Arcade’s dick pressed against his thigh, knows the heat and weight of it. He knows that Arcade is liable to grow impatient, and that he will dig his fingers into the meat of Arthur’s ass as though he is trying to lift him to compensate for their height difference. 

They have not gone further than that. It is perverse, really, the amount of pleasure Arthur gets from drawing this out, from denying himself the pure, simple joy of fucking _just this once._ To his great, continuous surprise, half the joy of this thing they have is in the waiting, in the prospect of winning Hoover Dam, taking Arcade to the top of the Lucky 38 and making him see all the lights of Vegas below.

“I want your cock in my mouth so bad.” Arthur chuckles hotly, with the jolt of Arcade’s hips under the table.

And people tell him he’s not a romantic.

Arcade is biting his lip to remain quiet, but each frustrated breath is a victory with tiny thrills that carries the promise of something more. He squirms, rolling his hips with knitted brows, as if prepared to change his mind at any minute.

Arthur wants to eat him alive.

Instead, he cranes his neck and kisses him hard with teeth and tongue, all want.

Close enough.

Suddenly there is a hand on his hip, and he finds himself pulled bodily into Arcade’s lap. His delighted laughter momentarily breaks the kiss. Not that Arcade is a prude by any stretch of the imagination, but it is not difficult to have a better developed sense of propriety than Arthur McManus.

Again, temptation! Part of him wants to tear and rip, send buttons flying and make Arcade scowl. But no, this is going too well, so Arthur behaves. He methodically undoes just enough buttons to slip his hand inside to find sparse hair and warm skin. Returning his attention to Arcade’s nipples, he pinches, scratches, swallowing down soft gasps like whiskey as the flesh hardens between his twisting fingers.

One of Arcade’s large hands catches his wrist.

“I- _ah -_ I’ll hold you to that.”

“Huh?”

“About your mouth…” Arcade lowers his gaze, absently wetting his own bitten lips.

Arthur whistles through his teeth, now accidentally prompting the glare he’d been tempted to provoke just moments before.

“Not here, idiot,” Arcade hisses, though there is little real irritation in it. “Upstairs, upstairs…!”

Arthur laughs, stealing another kiss. “A boy can dream.”

They make it halfway to the stairs before the Wrangler’s door bangs open.

“Howdy pardner,” A metaphorical record scratch stops them dead. “Glad I found ya.”

Arthur carefully avoids Arcade’s questioning stare, drawing what he hopes are soothing patterns across the other man’s back.

“Victor.” He does not quite manage his usual cheer. “What’s the matter, fella?”

“The big boss heard you’d just rolled back into town, and he says he wants to see ya.”

“At two o’clock in the fucking morning?” Incredulous, Arthur peaks past Arcade’s shoulder.

The securitron does not quite fit through the Wrangler’s door, and he idly bounces on his wheel as though attempting to duck beneath the frame. Under different circumstances, it might be quite amusing. There is a persistent toktoktok sound as he gently bumps against the half rotten wood. Suddenly awake, Francine irritably hovers nearby, though Victor is not using nearly enough force to cause real damage.

“Don’t shoot the messenger, friend.” Conspiratorially, Victor lowers the volume of his voice. “Between you and me, he ain’t pleased with you at all.”

Fuck.

By the sound of it, the word is getting around about Arthur’s little side bet with the Legion, and that, well, could be a problem.

Unless, of course House has heard about his little collaboration with Crocker and the folk at Camp McCarran. Still, not ideal, but something he could work with at least.

Arcade’s arms tighten around his waist.

“ _No_.” Arcade’s voice is harsh, and Arthur is half certain that there would not be much fun to be had tonight anymore even if he were to stay. He breaks their embrace, but cups Arcade’s face between his palms, straining to kiss him again. After a moment’s hesitation, Arcade tiredly meets him halfway.

“Duty calls, honey,” Arthur chimes sardonically.

“Oh, no no it’s fine,” Arcade replies lightly, finally letting him go. A blotchy flush is creeping into his cheeks, and the whole ‘coming to his senses’ thing really is not a good look on him. “It’s not like this doesn’t always happen.”

There is a part of Arthur that wants to protest that this time he is not technically at fault. He fully intended to take Arcade upstairs and break all the promises about delayed gratification he made to himself.

Arthur runs a hand through his hair, finding it greasy, dampened with sweat. He wipes his palm on his jeans.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, low enough that it is just between them.

Arcade puts his glasses back on.

“Of course you will. Just go.”

“I knew you’d understand, babe,” Arthur chirps, and turns his heels to the dull sound of Arcade’s footsteps on the stairs. He knows too well from Arcade’s tone that Arcade is not counting on him to do anything right now. It stings a little, but if Arthur plays his cards right there will be an entire world of tomorrows waiting for them.

He'll just have to make sure that he will be the last player at the table. 


End file.
